Wandering Eyes
by Trinity Archangel
Summary: Chris and Jill have reached a stalemate in their peculiar relationship. An old familiar face may be enough to draw Chris away from Jill; but a fresh appreciation may do the trick for Jill, who finds herself attracted to a very different man than Chris Redfield. ChrisxSheva, JillxJake
1. Apprehended!

There was nothing subtle about the approach Chris Redfield was taking to apprehend his target. When he entered the seedy lobby of the motel he now knew to be a brothel, he was already shoving his petrified informant toward the front desk to serve as translator. He slapped a picture of the target on the desk and tapped it. The manager stood up briskly to greet his irate visitor, toting a hostage and an assault rifle dangling from his shoulder.

"Ask him what floor he's on," Chris barked, catching a handful of the informant's shirt. He complied in stammering Edonian. What little of the language Chris knew was excluded from the conversation between his informant and the front desk man. When he felt their conversation was carrying on longer than necessary, he butted in.

"Shut up. What floor?"

"Three," came the quick reply. "Room twenty three."

"Thanks. You're free to go." He touched his ear piece to radio in to his support. "Target in three twenty-three. Ground support, expect extraction through main."

He snatched the crumbled photo from the hand of the startled hotel manager and started up the narrow staircase alone. By the time he had made it to the third level, he'd silenced his radio and slowed his pace. A glance out the windows to his right showed his team keeping curious citizen at bay. He counted the doors to his left, ignoring the ambiance of pleasure resonating out into the halls with him. Most of the damn doors were missing numbers. When he approached twenty-three, he paused to press his ear against it. Nothing stirred inside. He turned the knob slowly and met resistance midway.

The locking system was simple enough, and with a thrust of his pick, the latch melted away and the door swung open silently, guided by his hand and settled gently against the inside wall. Jake Muller lay shamelessly sprawled atop a tangle of sheets, covered only by the convenient shadow of the window frame falling across his crotch. Next to him a young woman rested with her back to him, lucid but unaware of Chris' intrusion. By the time he approached the foot of the bed he had her attention and she rolled over to greet him with wide eyes. She was understandably stunned to see a man in their room with an assault rifle aimed at her. Chris signaled for her to be quiet and lowered his weapon as he approached her. She complied and tried to pull the covers over her chest but Chris didn't respect the young prostitute's sudden modesty. He seized her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. She scrambled for the door, pausing only to gather Jake's discarded shirt from the floor before disappearing out into the hall. Chris rounded to Jake's side of the bed and slapped his foot to get his attention.

Jake's eyes flew open and tried to focus on the figure. Unlike his bed mate he wasn't frightened of the intruder. Through his blurry eyes the uniform was distinctly American, and the fuzzy blue patch on the arm belonged to the BSAA. He was in trouble again.

"Get yourself up, Jake Muller. Fraternizing in whore houses is a violation of the terms of your parole."

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. He sat up with a spring, covering himself with a hand. "How so?" He mumbled, reeling with the effects of alcohol. He could barely see straight.

Chris shook his head. "The American government finds you financially, and here you are a wasted sot, spitting in the face of your beneficiaries."

Jake sneered, pawing around the ground for his pants. He found them and slipped them on casually.

"Am I being arrested?" He asked. He had enough sense to know better. But the question bought him time. He jammed his feet into his boots and found his heavy coat draped over a chair in the corner. When he rose to put it on he could feel the muzzle of the assault rifle aiming at him.

"Stranger," he started, digging around in his coat pockets for a cigarette and a light, "You sound so familiar."

"Take your hands out your pockets," Chris warned flatly.

Jake found them both and brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it, pausing with the light in his hands to warm his chilled fingertips a bit. "Relax. I'm going to comply," he returned, hoping for the cigarette to sober him a bit. The searing ash burning down the back of his throat and the smoke shooting through his nose like a chimney stack irritated him enough to see straight.

"Arrogant little shit. Like father, like son."

The affront stung at Jake. "Ah, Chris Redfield," he realized. "Tell your Cub Scouts I'm good to go."

Chris scoffed but lifted his hand to his ear piece. No sooner than he'd done that that the embers of the cigarette came flying at his eyes. He lurched back and batted it away. The next time he saw Jake Muller he was in the window sill.

"I'll shoot you if you move I swear it!"

"I'm much too valuable," Jake said with a smile in his voice. He fell back carelessly from the window three stories up. Chris dashed to the sill in a panic, just in time to see Jake's dark figure thudding off the lid of a commercial dumpster below. He slammed his fist against the wall and radioed in to his ground support.

"Target on street level, west side of the building. I'm in pursuit." He cut transmission and flung his assault rifle behind him, lifting a foot to the sill.

Jake slid off the lid of the dumpster for another drop onto the icy slush below. He was sprawled out like a dirty snow angel three stories below the window he'd just brazenly leapt out of, clutching the rim of the pants he had yet to buckle. If he wasn't fighting sobriety he would have had more finesse in the whole execution but for now, he was too disoriented to get up. Instead, he watched in some disbelief to see Chris' bulky figure clamoring out the same window above him.

"For fuck's sake!"

Chris dropped down like a meteor onto the same garbage lid, only to have the added weight of his field gear spear him right through to the trash with the mangled plastic lid cupping him in place. Before Jake had a chance to sit up Chris had skipped out over the top, irate and moving toward him like a juggernaut. Jake scrambled back on his haunches, not sparing Chris the insult by chuckling at his folly. In his present state there were two of Chris's hulking silhouettes coming toward him, and two snow white moons casting shadows behind him. He would fight him anyway. The askew punch he threw at Chris was easily parried. The heavy knee he absorbed into his abdomen leveled him immediately. His double vision merged in time to see a fleet of combat boots arriving to aid Chris, and a flood of flashlights blinding him to his spot, crumbled in icy waste and trying to wheeze out an insult he didn't have enough breath to accomplish.

Jill Valentine stared down intently at the manila folders she had sprawled about her bed amass a tangle of sheets and a partially drawn back comforter. She had read through the files again and again hoping to soften some of the anguish she felt rising in the depth of her stomach. Why had she tortured herself with this case? Why would she volunteer to interrogate _Jake Muller_-the son of her long dead captor after only a year of soft work at the BSAA? She considered throwing the offer in reverse shortly after she'd surprised everyone at HQ by impulsively taking on the job herself. All she had been doing for the BSAA was interrogation work—and she was good at it—but no one expected her to take on _Jake Muller_. Especially since he was being transported to US soil for the same nature of crime his father was guilty of: Perpetuating the potential spread of biological terrorism.

_Just quit, Jill._ _No one is going to hate you for pulling the plug at the last minute._

Her own discouraging thoughts were troubling her. _No, that's just what everyone is expecting you to do. Maybe it won't be so bad._

She leafed through the files again, piecing together a volatile personality with the adjectives she had highlighted to condition herself against the vile charms of Jake Muller. _Aggressive. Crass. Temperamental. Crude. Garish. Brash. Sarcastic. Arrogant._ Sherry Berkin had composed most of his file herself, and while she praised him for his aid while she was in Edonia, the only positive word in his entire file was, _honest._

It did nothing to deaden her negative expectations. She pushed her reading glasses into the crown of her dark brown hair, feeling the plastic nose bridge of the frame glide over a still tender but faint scar on her forehead. She sighed heavily and picked up the picture of the red head glaring up at her from the bed. Next to her, her phone was going off on the night stand. She didn't have to pick it up to know that it was Chris.

_Two am and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake; Can you help me unravel my latest mistake? I don't love him; winter just wasn't my season._

She ignored it. It usually meant that he was on his way up. She observed the picture, unnerved by the way his fierce blue eyes cut into her from the photograph. The way his brows sloped to darken his already off-putting features. And that deep scar running down the left side of his face seemed to brand him as a criminal. She let the photograph flutter from her fingers. It didn't make any sense to be frightened of a photo, despite how daringly he seemed to taunt her with his tactile stare.

Her phone buzzed twice, reminding her to check her text messages. She turned on screen and read them.

Chris 10:47pm: IM BACK

Chris 11:17pm: ON MY WAY UP.

It went off again while it was in her hands.

Chris 11:22pm: KNOCK KNOCK

No sooner than she'd received the message than she heard the front door to her apartment unlock. She smiled crookedly at his always welcomed intrusion and slid the papers off her bed back into their respectful folders. She heard him kick out of his boots in the foyer; he always sent them crashing into the wall much to her annoyance. He stomped around in the kitchen for a little while, rummaging in the fridge. After a few minutes went by, he was padding up the hall. Her bedroom door cracked open and he peeked in to see if she was still awake. She greeted him with a smile.

"Hey," he greeted, slipping in and closing the door behind him.

"Hey yourself," she returned, sliding her bare legs under the sheets. He sat down on the bed next to her with a sigh.

"Just came up to check on you. Need me to stay?" He asked.

No, she didn't. She smiled politely and nodded anyway. The pleading look in his face begged her to put him up for the night. He was already peeling out of his uniform anyway.

"How'd it go?" She watched him drop his heavy tactical vest on the ground and sling shot his shirt across the room.

"As good as it could have gone, I guess." He spoke to her from over his bare back, which exposed a darkening shoulder and various other bruises. She squinted at the injuries and looked to him for an explanation.

Chris smiled sheepishly, slapping his socks together and balling them up. "I jumped out a three story building. Landed on a dumpster. Hurt like hell, but I got up like I didn't think I'd broken my shoulder."

Jill laughed genuinely as he eased out his cargo pants and laid them across the foot of the bed. Underneath the black and blues and rash of bruises, Chris had kept his thirty-six year old body well. She couldn't help but admire it, despite not wanting to send him a message he had already misinterpreted. He held her gaze an awkward moment before she ferried her eyes away and rolled onto her back as he joined her under the covers. He yawned, roaring like a bear and flopped an arm lazily across her midsection. He closed his eyes and settled against the pillows facing her.

"Ready for tomorrow?"

No, she was agonizing over it. She untangled her glasses from her hair and set them next to her phone on the nightstand. "Yeah." Her reply was unenthusiastic and unconvincing.

"Humph."

"I _am_ ready," she insisted, a bit of bite in her response. What did his _humph _mean, anyway? "Please don't treat me like everyone else."

"And how has everyone else been treating you?"

"Like I'm afraid."

At that, Chris popped his eyes open. "_Are_ you? I mean, it _is _Wesker's son."

Jill turned away from his stare to look up at the ceiling. Yes, she was. He may have already suspected that but he'd never have the satisfaction of knowing it. Chris continued, drawing her closer and placed a reassuring kiss on her shoulder.

"When you wanna pull the chute, just let me know." He found his face nestled into the crook of her neck, his grizzly chin brushing against her. His lips found behind her ear as she turned her back slightly to him, sending a familiar shiver down her spine. She wasn't ready to acknowledge what that meant.

He pressed his large frame up against hers and sighed heavily, sending the fine hairs at her neck flying about. She settled her hand over the arm wrapped around her waist and stared ahead at the wall next to the bathroom door.

"Whenever you're ready," he mumbled, suggestion in his doubly-intended statement though he sounded half awake. He drifted off after she didn't reply. Jill stared at the wall most of the night.


	2. Rekindling

Chris was definitely going to be late for the sudden meeting the Board of Directors had insisted he be a part of at 10am that morning. He knew before hand from the Foreign Affairs department that BSAA stations around the globe would be sending in representatives to question them about their captive. It was no secret now that the little shit carried antibodies. He just didn't think they'd invite him to the meeting and then follow up the call with a text from an alphanumeric body "MANDATORY."

It was eight forty-six in the morning when he got that text. He huffed and looked to his side for Jill. She was already at the field office. He wouldn't have been booking it across town with the shards of a doughnut hanging out his mouth and the stains of coffee on his shirt if he hadn't lingered at his closet door trying to put together an outfit. He was so used to tactical shirts and cargo pants that he didn't think jeans and a dark blue BSAA polo shirt would cut it. He ended up wearing it anyway after wrestling with indecision and slipped into the meeting fifteen minutes after it had started, unexcused and unabashed.

He didn't bother to meet the eyes of the unimpressed department heads as he ducked behind the podium where the head of Operations was rocking it back and forth and stammering through a lie about something he'd come in too late to catch the gist. He took a quick seat in one of the metal folding chairs at the head of the room and immediately found that the commercial carpeting beneath his feet would be an adequate distraction. He didn't do well in idle settings where organized thought prevailed. He felt naked without field gear. There was more babbling, then a series of introductions. He glanced up when the first BSAA representative stood to introduce themselves.

A thin, towering man with a heavy accent was first. "Alexi Azarov, BSAA Russia." When he sat down the person next to him popped up.

"Iurey Porthos, BSAA South America."

The next. "Captain Beverley Kinkaid, Queensland, Australia."

Chris had been lost in the multicoloured intricacies at his feet. He glanced at his watch. Jill would be downstairs prepping for her first of many interrogations. He had already planned to spy on her through the one way mirror.

"Sheva Alomar, West Africa."

What? He shot his head up so fast he would have toppled out the seat had there been no back rest. Sheva Alomar was standing four feet away from him the entire time and he didn't even notice her until she spoke. She stood staring straight ahead in khakis and the same BSAA polo he was wearing in green. She sat down after her introduction and shot glace in Chris' direction, amused by his loose jaw and bewildered expression. A smile crept into the corner of her mouth before she brought her attention back to the podium leader while everyone else finished their introductions.

Chris couldn't stop staring, mostly in disbelief. He hadn't seen Sheva in four years and there his old partner sat, but a stride away, stretched out in her navy plastic desk chair with her feet crossed at the ankle. Four years didn't mean much to the now twenty seven year old who did not show her maturity on her face but in her status in BSAA. She had been chosen to represent West Africa. Suddenly, he felt stupid. He had gawked at her like an idiot and didn't have the decency to offer her a smile or any other acknowledgement that he was happy to see her again. He wanted her attention, but he didn't know how. He thought to ball up a gum wrapper in his pocket and throw it at her but he didn't want anyone else's attention either, considering he had already been late to the meeting. He settled after a few minutes when she didn't look at him again. With his hopes dashed, the carpet held his attention again, but with his eyes downcast it was hard to notice the stolen looks she was giving him then.

Chris was still the titan she remembered but with a closer cut of hair and a grainier five o clock shadow. His polo shirt smoothed over the bulge of his figure and disappeared at his waist where his denim covered legs propped up his massive upper body, perched on his knees. The main difference between old Chris and new, was the attraction. Her stomach didn't flutter like butterflies and wind into knots when she saw him. The allure of an experienced veteran with an entrenched sense of justice and confidence attractive in any man had fizzled out over the years, over the distance, and now he was just very plainly, _Chris. _

Sheva folded her arms across her chest and slouched in her chair. She didn't care that the Russian and the Asian were erectly straight, making her slouch seem even more unprofessional, or that her jutted feet were wagging like a dog's tail on the other side of the table. Chris hadn't been paying attention since he arrived—especially not to her—and the Operations head was shifting the podium under his swaying upper body. His pants were too short, his grey socks drooped, and the pit stains on his short sleeve dress shirt were spreading rapidly.

The meeting adjourned after an hour of intense questioning and the group disbursed in messy clumps. She slipped around the crowd and out the main door, catching another glimpse of Chris through the blinds, trying to excuse his way through the crowd. She slowed her escape on purpose, just to see if he would catch up to her. He did.

"Sheva!" He called, jogging up to her. Neither of them knew if to hug the other despite the welcoming smiles they were exchanging. Chris ended their shuffling about by offering her a firm handshake, which she softened by closing his hand in her own.

"Sorry I didn't see you in the conference room. I didn't mean to ignore you."

She took a half step back and settled him with a forgiving smile. She'd forgotten how much taller than her he was. "Don't worry about it. You didn't seem too enthused to be in there."

"I never am," he admitted with a careless shrug. "So they sent you around the world to help put pressure on the American branch, huh?"

"Pretty much. Imagine my surprise that to learn that Wesker had a son, far less one with antibodies."

Chris nodded, easing his way onto the wall to hold himself up. His hands dove into his pockets. "You guys could really use it in Kijuju, huh?"

It was Sheva's turn to nod. She followed his influence naturally and found herself leaning against the wall also. "You have no idea. This guy's a walking cure and he's just giving it away to any and everybody in Edonia? How bad is the outbreak spreading?"

Chris brought his hands together in a prayerful petition. "No outbreak yet, please don't even mention it. I got no idea what the hell he was thinking or what he thought he was doing but we got him 'detained' for bioterrorism." He made quotes in the air with his fingers. "Trust me, foreign governments were not happy with Muller being the BSAA's little secret."

"Believe me, I know. I just left West Africa. Coming here is a vacation."

Chris chuckled lightly when he noticed that his little shadow was mirroring his own lackadaisical lean against the hallway wall as everyone brushed by them in a potpourri of languages and accents, sending updates to their HQs back home. He also noticed they were wearing the same shirt, although her very feminine frame was lost away under the blockish form of the polo shirt. Still, she had left the collar unbuttoned to force the illusion of a sloppy V-neck, which Chris unconsciously trailed his eyes right down to her chest. He darted his eyes right back up into hers once he reailsed what he had done. She didn't seem to notice.

"Jill's doing the interrogation, you know?"

Jill. Figures he'd bring up Jill. Sheva raised her brows in surprise. She didn't have to explain her expression to Chris.

"Does she know? About Muller?"

"Knows but doesn't care. I'm gonna go check on her now." He pushed off from the wall, signaling an end to their brief conversation. "I know you're staying at the dormitory with the new recruits." He made a face, remembering those days all too well. "So call me if you get bored, ok?" He fished a business card out of his wallet and scribbled his number on the blank side before handing it to her.

"Yes, sir."

"Just don't be up my ass about what's going on with Muller," he warned playfully.

"I promise. We should catch up."

"Yeah, soon, Shev. Soon," he agreed, cupping her shoulder lightly. He guided her in for the hug they should have shared initially. She turned her face to rest against his chest, swallowed in his arms as she tried to knit her own around him. When he pulled away she felt the stirring of old emotions rising up. It wasn't _that_ hard to rekindle the embers of an old attraction. Even at its faintest pulse of life.

"It really is good to see you again."

She smiled warmly at him. Yeah. Too good.

Chris made it downstairs to the interrogation rooms and joined a crowd of personnel fogging up the one way viewing glass. Watching Jake Muller's initial interrogation was like the season premiere of a television series. Jill was always conventional in her interrogations—boring to say the least, but rumors that her ill-tempered young subject was something like a shaken can of soda expected to get a rise out of the usually stoic Jill.

She was inside sitting behind a long folding table facing the sole other chair in the room. Jake Muller would enter in escorted through the security door just before her and occupy that seat. There was an untouched thermos of coffee decorating the table to her left, a tape recorder and the same manila folders she had been pouring over the night before in front of her.

She unhooked the security badge from the lapel of her black suit jacket for the hundredth time. She couldn't decide if she wanted him to be familiar with her or not. She didn't even know if her name would mean anything at all to him. From her knowledge, he barely knew his own father far less his involvement with her. Still, the security door flew open and found her there fiddling with the clip. She started with a jolt and let the badge drop into her lap.

Jake Muller staggered in between two security guards, hands pinned behind his back by a cutting pair of zip ties. A sweaty white undershirt teased out from beneath the undone buttons of his black jacket and his large boots seemed to be falling apart around his feet without the shoelaces. He was guided to the chair across from Jill and planted firmly by the hands on his shoulders. He immediately slid forward to the edge of the chair so his hands wouldn't be restricted by the backrest. He dropped his gaze to the table and turned away in defiance.

Jill, hands knitted together to hide their trembling, sat erectly still staring at the looming figure before her. At his arrival, her lips fused shut. Expecting to find something of his father, she could not help but capitalize on his distraction and study him. She trailed her eyes along the tense set of his jaw, following the scarred cheek up to the crop of reddish hair matted with sweat to his head. There was nothing there that belonged to Wesker until her imagination became abusive.

The sharp cut of his nose was a dead match, and the tense purse of his lips, small but shapely, would sound out the same snobbish enunciation of his father before him if only he spoke, she _knew _it. Jill felt her heart starting to leap out of her chest. The corners of her eyes started to sting a little. If only his hair were blond, thicker, and neatly arranged. She felt her throat tightening as surely as if he had his hands woven around her neck. If only that disfigurement on his face would flesh out and perfect his complexion, if only the eyes that slowly turned to meet hers were searing coals—

But they weren't. In fact, the eyes were cold, nearly devoid of any pigment save for the tint of blue haunting them. The photograph had materialized, and there in the flesh sat Jake Muller, a heavy presence, glaring impatiently at her through eyes of unrest. She took in a sharp breath.

"What the _fuck_ are you looking at?"

His words were tactlessly sobering. By then his features had already blurred together until his distorted image slid out of her eyes in a blink. She hated herself for doing the very thing she tried to condition herself against. She hated that she looked childish, unprofessional, and weak. And she so hated how he stared at her with the same empty emotion as his father who was apathy unbound. If he was taken aback by her display, he did not show it, save for the sole moment that he turned away again if for no other reason than to shield his own discomfort. There was no way she could do this.

She shot out of her seat and fumbled with the stop button on the tape recorder before scooping up her belongings and making an abrupt turn for the door. In her haste, she knocked over the entire thermos of coffee but didn't slow to acknowledge it. She couldn't get to the door fast enough. Streams of embarrassment ran down her cheeks. When she made it out of the interrogation room she ran smack into Chris, who was already heading on his way in.

She didn't reject the arms that immediately wrapped around her in solace. Her arms slacked at her sides, scattering the files about the floor as she sobbed into Chris's embrace while their colleagues shuffled around them awkwardly. Chris glanced over her at Jake Muller in the room ahead, staring intrusively at them as if he had enchanted the whole ordeal. He reached out a hand and pushed in the door, shutting him out completely.

"Jill? Are you alright?"

She had pushed out of his arms not an hour ago and made a beeline for her car in the parking garage, all the while ignoring his pleas for attention as he trailed behind her fleeing figure throughout the BSAA office. She had very nearly driven off with his fingers attached to the handle of her passenger side door as she sped out of the garage, barely sparing a glance at him through her rear view mirror to see if she had ran him over.

He didn't take the hint then and he certainly didn't have it now, even though he sounded slightly defeated on the other side of her bathroom door where he had taken post. He followed her trail of discarded clothes throughout the apartment to the locked bathroom door where her black bra was dangling from the doorknob. His back pocket was buzzing with an incoming call, but he ignored it much like Jill was ignoring him now. He knew the door was locked but he tried the knob anyway. She cut her eyes sharply at the rattling knob and sunk deeper into the hot suds of her bath with a sigh. The tendrils of hair that had fallen from her messy bun floated gently on the water surface. To her disgust, the brunette ends were fading to reveal the blonde memory underneath.

"Jill."

"What?" She tried to sound stern, certainly aggravated, but it was dulled by her tearful voice.

"Let's talk."

Was he serious? But that was Chris. It had always been Chris: Relentless, intrusive and at some point in recent history, frustrating. She couldn't stop her eyes from rolling.

"Chris—Just, no. I don't want to talk."

He was leaning against the door with his shoulder pressed into the frame, absently tugging at the bra. His pocket buzzed again. "You're already doing it."

When she didn't respond he fished his phone out of his pocket and saw that he had missed a call from an unknown number.

_WHO IS THIS? _He typed out in response. He turned his attention back to the door. "Jill."

"_What, _Chris?" She snapped from behind the door. He got an immediate response from the unknown number.

_It's Sheva._ Chris' eyebrows popped up in surprise but he didn't reply right away. Jill continued.

"What do you want me to say? That seeing him made me realize that I'm _not_ over what happened with Wesker?" It was slightly therapeutic getting it out of her system although her pride was still burning in wake of what had happened.

_Yes, actually._ Chris mashed his eyes shut and shook his head slowly. That was exactly what he thought the problem was. He wanted to feel sorry for her, but he had been chided for his lack of support when she made the decision to interrogate Jake weeks ago.

"That's it. I'm pulling the plug on this whole thing," he said decisively, turning away from the door.

"What?!" Jill shrieked. She flagged her hands free of soapy water and braced herself on the edge of the tub to stand up. She snatched her towel from the toilet seat and threw it around her before she ripped open the bathroom door to catch Chris as he was heading to the foyer. It was just like him to try and conduct her life because he couldn't stop parenting her ever since they'd gotten back from Kijuju. But he'd lost that self appointed task shortly after going ghost in Edonia. In his absence she had a chance to breathe and realize she _could_ stand on her own two feet and manage her own life. And she could do this interrogation by herself also, despite the absolute failure of her first humiliating attempt, despite what he thought, or anyone else back at HQ.

"You will _not." _She resisted, knotting her towel under her arm. He turned to face her, incredulous.

"Did you hear yourself?" He wanted to believe that she was just erratic. But she stood with firm resolve with her arms folded across her chest, eyes pink with irritation and her chin pointed, indignant.

"You don't get to make those kinds of decisions for me." She gripped him by the elbow and started to usher him out the door. He turned willingly and allowed her to push him out into the hall. The door she tried to slam bounded off his resisting hand.

"I swear to God I'm not doing this to control your life, despite what you may think, Jill. But what are you gonna do tomorrow when you try to question him again and all you see is…" He hesitated. But she already knew what he was going to say so hitting the brakes didn't do anything but stall. "Wesker?"

Jill shrugged carelessly, despite not having a plan of action. "I just won't look at him," she said simply, succeeding in shutting the door after him.

Chris felt the wind of the door snap against his face. He stood out in the hall burning holes into the back of the door. He really felt like kicking it down just to barge in and have the last word. Seldom had she treated him princely for looking out for her own well-being. He had nearly forgotten he had his phone clenched in his hand. He looked down at the screen where Sheva's unanswered text was staring up at him.

_CALL ME._ He replied.


	3. Bridging the Gap in Strides

Sheva rifled through her unpacked travel bag at the foot of her bed, tossing clothes over her head carelessly. In retrospect, she wondered if she had packed in the dark. Everything she had pulled out so far was disappointingly bland and unflattering. She rolled her eyes and sat back on her haunches, wondering if what she had on was ok.

It was a sports bar after all, and if she didn't fit in wearing dark jeans and a striped cowl neck top then she might as well stay in, although the plain white walls of her 10 x 10 dormitory seemed to have gotten exponentially smaller in the time she had been in it. Her sole window was facing another dormitory and the thermostat was only there to make her feel as though she had control over the temperature in the room. She flopped back onto the squeaky single bed with a sigh and turned to look at the phone lying next to her.

When she called Chris earlier, it was because she wanted him to have her number in his phone. Nothing else. Still she hesitated, turning his business card over and over in her hands, smudging his small and sloppily written phone number. She must have read the card a dozen times. _Chris Redfield, FA, AIC, SOU, BSAA America._

His _CALL ME _was direct, simple, imperative, demanding. But when she did call, she realized she may have misinterpreted it.

"Hey, Sheva." His voice came so unenthused and flat from start to finish that she thought then that it was more of a plea. In fact, she had to ask,

"Is everything ok?"

He scoffed. "You'll hear about it soon enough." An elevator door chimed in the background. She heard him tapping at the floor button madly. As if it would make the doors close any faster.

"What'd you need?" It was unintentionally tart. His little disagreement with Jill was still bleeding out.

His frankness made her feel stupid calling him _just_ so he would have her number in his phone. She tried to come up with more viable reason but lying on the fly wasn't her forte and to her disgust, the truth was already falling out of her mouth on its own agenda.

"Uh, I—really just wanted you to have my number…" She could feel the heat of her embarrassment rising to her face. "…So you can keep me posted with Muller."

Chris walked out the lobby doors of Jill's condo and stood idly by the valet, trying to figure out where he had parked. "I thought I told you not to be up my ass about work." He raised his key remote above his head and listened for a response while Sheva went silent on the other end of the line.

"This number is for personal calls only." There was a smile in his voice, thankfully. Sheva didn't realize that she was holding her breath until he'd spoken. She deflated like a balloon, laughing softly. His stiff humor didn't make her feel any less awkward.

"Ok, well, really that was all. I didn't want to bother you."

Bother him? If anything, the call was a rescue. He found his dirty white Wrangler parked askew with his muddy mountain bike sloping from the rack on his hitch. He nudged off a chunk of dirt from his back tire with his shoe. Frankly, he didn't want to go back to his apartment to brood. He went out on a limb, blasé about her response either way.

"While I've got you, you want to meet up tonight?"

For whatever reason, the invite, innocent at worse, Sheva accepted with hesitation because for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why her heart had skipped. Now she was waiting for her phone to ring again and let her know it was safe to start heading out. She didn't wait long for his text.

Chris: _LEAVE NOW_

She smiled at his short response this time. But his typing in all caps had to stop.

Chris blinked in confusion at the message response in his phone.

Sheva: OMW

What the hell did that mean? Texting and driving wasn't a fad he had adopted, so he wrestled with the meaning all the way to the sports bar. He attempted to send her a series of question marks after he'd parked but thought better of it in the off chance that she had beaten him there as he sat wasting time trying to figure out how to convert the "k" into a question mark.

When she met him at the bar, interrupting his fanatical interest in the baseball game on the over-hanging television, she greeted him with a smile. He responded with,

"What does OMW mean?" She found his confusion laughable.

"It means 'On My Way'," she explained, feeling a tad childish.

"Oh," he settled, feeling out dated.

He zipped his eyes over her from floor to face and returned the smile she greeted him with. He patted the barstool next to him, offering to buy her a drink from over his shoulder. The shouting patrons reminded him that the game was on. Sheva slipped in next to him and held her purse in her lap, glancing around the counter at the peanut shells and globs of sticky God-knows-what adhering napkins to the surface. The barkeep swept away the grime and nodded to her for her order.

"Ummmm."

Normally, the bartender would be impatient with indecision except he thought his pretty little patron adorable as her hazel eyes swept over the draft selections blankly. Chris turned to rescue her, bemused.

"Foreign or domestic?"

"Foreign?" She wasn't even sure.

"Lagers or ales?"

At that, Sheva sat stumped. She shrugged. She was about as laughable as he was trying to figure out her texting acronyms. He ordered her a fruit infused brew to start her off. He lifted his glass of water to her bottle neck.

"Cheers." The glasses clinked.

She furrowed her brows at his drink choice. "Not gonna join me?"

At that, Chris felt his smile fading slowly. He set his glass down on the bar top and searched her for a hint of cruel intention, but she was genuinely uninformed. Still, he felt a pang of hurt resounding within him. The memories of four years ago were throbbing with their own pulse. He slid off the barstool and nodded off toward a booth in the corner. They had some catching up to do.

* * *

Chris had condensed four hundred pages of the Langshiang/Edonia incident into forty minutes of conversation, a shared plate of nachos, a side of loaded fries and two more glasses of water. And three more beers for Sheva. Respecting Chris' noble repudiation of alcohol did not stop her from trying her new beloved beer on draft thrice over. He'd practically chopped her ear off talking rather incessantly at his company who listened intently with shades of compassion shaping her expressions. She did not offer judgment, she did not chide him, nor did she offer pity for his brief lapse of standards, having gone derelict in Edonia. He was thankful for that. He was tired of the pity parties, blaming his alcoholism on concussions and grief. Still, having to relive the past stirred up emotional sediment. His brows knitted, a knot formed in his chest, and he took a draught of his water as if it would offer the punishing lash of whiskey he remembered.

He ran both hands through his hair. "I can't even tell you how sorry I am about that mission. I considered retiring after Edonia. I abused my position as Captain."

"You're a great leader, Chris," Sheva chimed in, dismissing his oncoming pessimism.

He wished he believed that. He dipped his head to catch her eyes, his own hardened in earnest. "You know how long it took before anyone wanted to follow after my command?"

Sheva shook her head at his expectant glare and averted her attention to the empty red fry basket on the table between them. He didn't even give her an answer. It spoke volumes.

"I very nearly got you killed in Kijuju looking for Jill. I'm sorry for that."

The second he'd gotten the words out Sheva shot her hands across the table and latched onto his own. He didn't even realize he had balled them into fists. The persuasive sway of her touch softened his tension and he allowed her fingers to slip into his hands. He felt his whole body sigh under her touch.

It was her turn to stare at him pointedly. "I made a _choice_, Chris. One I have yet to regret."

He glanced down at their subtle connection with his thumbs resting gently on the backs of her hands. She had gentlest touch, affectionate and reassuring. How could those dainty little hands do much more than caress? The moment of consideration was long enough to make him feel awkward holding her hands. He didn't want to pull away first and risk offending her, so he gave her a grateful squeeze before she eased her hands back to her side of the table.

When he realized he still hands his hands resting on the table, open with invitation, he sucked them into his lap. "So how did you know Piers?"

She didn't miss a beat. "He worked Klean-up Kijuju as a volunteer for a few weeks after he left training in Quantico." Sheva took a took brief moment to consider even bringing up the next topic. By the time she'd decided against it, she was already talking. "You know I tried to help him find you…" She said quietly, finding her mug and turning it about in idle little circles. Why did she even bring it up?

"Oh, yeah?" He encouraged, hoping she would elaborate. She didn't.

She had tried to help Piers find him? He didn't think that she'd given him another thought since he'd left Kijuju, considering he hadn't even attempted to be a part of her life since then. Suddenly, he felt selfish. And neglectful. He slumped into the booth with a sigh, lazily glancing around at the emptying tables around them being bused.

"Let's call it a night," she mumbled.

"Yeah," he sighed. He stood up from the table and slapped a few bills down to cover the tab. Sheva stood up to slide out of the booth and had to brace herself against the table top. Chris shot out his hands to steady her.

"Woah! You ok?"

She nodded, pausing a moment to collect herself. Standing up so fast left her senses sitting down. She didn't realize that she was tipsy until she was on her feet, watching the room warp.

Chris chuckled, watching her sway lightly. "I think I got you drunk."

"That came up on me all at once…" She glanced down at the hands on her hips, steadying her in place. As much as she wanted them there, she probably needed them, too. She wanted to formulate an apology; she wanted to articulate her remorse but all that tumbled out of her mouth was a very unladylike,

"Shit." She was betraying herself a lot tonight.

Chris chuckled again. It shouldn't have gone beyond him that his petite young company wouldn't be able to down four drinks and stay afoot. Her vulnerability was new to him; she had barely needed him for much more than an extra magazine and a first aid spray in Kijuju. Her independence earned his respect but hardly his notice until now. She unwittingly brushed up against him, forcing him to recognize that from his view, her hips curved softly to a trim waistline and arched back, a lone arm now anchoring her to the table as she tried to stand. When had Sheva become a _woman? _He shook his head clear, taking her by the arm.

"Let me drive you home," he offered.

"I'm ok."

"Sheva—"

Her hand shot up to stop him from going any further, but she turned to face him with a smile once she'd found her footing. The vulnerability was gone, and the confident young woman mildly peaked with the effects of alcohol stood before him.

"I'll be fine, really."

Chris, hesitant, nodded reluctantly. She was her own woman after all. He didn't want to be accused of parenting her like he did Jill.

"Alright," he accepted flatly. He walked her to her car a pace behind her the entire time trying to convince himself that he was judging her sobriety based on her footing. The glances he stole at the rest of her were incidental. When the grey agency rental was in sight, she unlocked it with the key remote.

"Thanks for playing catch up with me," she started, clutching her purse with both hands. Chris stood stoic before her, hands jammed into his pockets, trying to stifle his over protective nature. He hated himself for allowing her to choose. He clenched his jaw and nodded again.

"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "We'll talk soon."

"About Muller?" About _anything_.

Another nod.

"I'll be _fine_, Chris," she soothed, noticing how tense he'd become. She reached out and gave his shoulder a light squeeze. She turned toward the car but stopped short when he took her by her wrist.

"Promise me," he insisted sternly. He knew it was an absurd insistence but the faux reassurance would offer him some relief.

"I promise," she replied, slowly pulling out of his grip. Their fingers linked for just a moment before she turned again, successfully making it to her car. He watched her start it up and toot her horn to bid him farewell as she started down the ramp to the first floor of the parking garage. Chris walked to the cement wall overlooking the first floor and watched as her car went by the arm lift at the electronic booth below.

He could still feel her touch pulsing under his skin. What was the point in savouring it? It would amount to nothing.


	4. Try Not to Blow It

Jill raked her fingers through her hair for the hundredth time. Every time she closed the medicine cabinet above her bathroom sink, she was certain she'd seen a hint of blonde evading her. She leaned into the mirror and swept her hair back away from her forehead, examining the roots. She never regained her natural walnut brown tresses, but the lustre Roasted Acorn promised on the box of dye certainly delivered. Not that it would matter who else was admiring her locks. She wasn't going to look at anyone on her way to the interrogation room. And she certainly wasn't going to look at Jake Muller. She popped a Xanax and closed the bathroom mirror for the last time, refusing to acknowledge her self-doubting expression. There wasn't anything she couldn't handle.

Jake glanced around inside the plain grey interrogation room, humoring himself. He wondered if sodium pentothal was being pumped through the air vents like on tv. Or if they'd ever give him back his shoelaces and belt. He groaned impatiently, sitting forward on the metal folding chair the guards had plopped him in an eternity ago. With no clock on the walls it was impossible to keep track of the time without spiraling into boredom and throwing off his mental count. How many times had he counted the ceiling tiles and blurred his numbers up around a hundred something? Were they keeping him waiting on purpose? He didn't have anything to talk about. He wasn't a terrorist.

The table in front of him was spotted with blotches of sticky coffee from yesterday. The thermos still teetered at the edge as if peering down at the lid below. He dropped his eyes to the floor, tracing the stains under the table where a laminated badge lay face down by the leg of the opposite chair. He perked a brow at the find. Serendipity. He dared to glance over his shoulder to see if his escorts were still in the room with him. They weren't.

Like a contortionist, he rotated his shoulders and dipped his long arms past his behind, easing through the loop of his arms and slithering his legs through at last. In moment his bonded wrists were sitting in his lap. He lifted his boot, peeled apart around his feet like a banana and dropped it down onto the little plastic to drag it closer to him to read the name just next to the tiny square with a picture of his interrogator. J-I-L-L. Jill. He had a first name. V-A-L-E-N-T-He had scarcely made out the lettering when Jill swung open the far door and entered with her freshly dyed hair shimmering behind her like a cape.

Jake smirked, securing his prize underfoot. Figured.

She directed her attention firstly to the spilled thermos on the table, setting it upright and pressing the lid down firmly. She set it off to the side and dropped her black side bag onto the floor by her feet once she'd taken a seat. She took out the tape recorder and set it down on the table between them, consciously avoiding looking any higher than the torso of her company. But his hands were resting on the table, fingers knitted innocently. His raw knuckles revealed much of a violent nature she expected of him. Involuntarily, she stole a quick glance up at his face. He was slithering his tongue over a bruised lip she hadn't before noticed. A flicker of disgust crossed her face. He was even more unattractive than she remembered.

She reached out her hand and started the tape recorder. Jake followed the path her unsteady hand had taken to the little recording device before disappearing abruptly under the table. He smiled slightly to himself at the discomfort he was causing her. He took notice of the large viewing glass behind his company's head, certain that the adjoining room was full of spectators. He brought is attention back to her, prepared for a little back and forth banter. She had dyed her hair. It was nice. She wasn't crying either. Also nice.

"I'm here to help you, Jake Muller."

He scoffed, finding humor in her empty statement. It was typical. She seemed typical. It fit. "You're _really_ gonna try to pitch that to me?"

She didn't look up to acknowledge that he'd spoken. She was scribbling away at a notepad she'd fished from her side bag.

"The length of your detention here is totally dependent on you."

Jake rolled his eyes. Was this uppity bitch serious? He'd have been gone by now if it was up to him. He interlocked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. Again, he didn't have shit to talk about.

"Why were you selling samples of your blood in Edonia?"

"I wasn't," Came his cool reply.

She jotted down his response and paused at the end of her notes, lingering with her pen pressed down onto the notepad. The ink was spreading across the blue delineation the longer she pondered what was now very obvious.

"What are your hands doing in front of you?"

Jake glanced down at his hands, then back up at her with a shrug. He wondered if she'd even seen that. Her eyes seemed to roam about blankly across the table, returning to the notepad and raising no higher than his neck.

"Are you afraid now?" He jabbed, smug.

A little bit. But she wasn't about to rearrange his situation, either. She referenced his charges in his folder again before picking up where she'd left off.

"Who did you sell your blood samples to? A radical group?"

"I didn't sell any blood samples."

"…To a government organization or private movement?"

Was she stupid? "No," He articulated slowly.

"Bullshit, Mr. Wesker."

Mr. Wesker? Where the hell did _that_ come from? She stiffened at her own response, anticipating an explosive reaction from her company. If she dared to look at him she'd see his smug demeanor slowly souring. Was she trying to get a rise out of him? Mr. Wesker? He didn't even share a surname with that tyrant. He glared daggers at the seemingly unapologetic Jill, watching her shift through the manila folders in front of her for the sake of distraction. His nostrils flared in an attempt to subdue his temper. He wanted to reach out and scatter everything onto the floor. He wanted to grab her chin and force her to look at him and ask her if she saw anything there was remotely his father.

Jill could feel the tension she had unintentionally created suffocating her. It was not her place to apologise to a terrorist. She didn't have to look at him to know he was burrowing holes into her. Frankly, her shame kept her averted. Somehow, she found the pluck to continue.

"Are you even aware that –"

"Shut up," He growled, rising stiffly from his chair to tower over her. She immediately set her hand to her hip and popped open the snap button securing her taser in place. She dared to look at him finally. His white skin had flushed over, jaws clenched. It was a precursor to a tantrum. He was postured in a way that expressed his subdued intent. She half expected him to flip the table or spit at her. But there was something else there beyond his initial expression of anger revealing it to be a response— a failsafe reaction to a glint of hurt she thought she may have seen behind his fiery eyes.

He turned away from her and went to the door he had come out of earlier, pressing his back up against it. He drove his heel into the door in aggressive knock.

"Come get me, she's done," He hollered at the door. Jill wanted to stop him. If apologizing would settle the matter then she'd do it. But when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. How could she apologise to him? He was a _terrorist_. She had been with him twice and got nothing out of him in two days. _Two days._

She wasn't ready for this. Chris was right. The Board of Directors were right. She plopped her elbows onto the table and raked her fingers into her hair. When the door opened and the guard popped his head in for her permission to take him, Jake glowered at her as if defying her to say otherwise. He was already shoving past the guard when she gave him a permissive nod.

She shut off the tape recorder and scooted back from the table, ready to take her walk of shame back upstairs after just ten minutes. Jake Muller was going to ruin her.

Sheva rolled over in bed and dropped the dead weight of her tired hand atop the alarm sounding near her head. It didn't do a thing to stop the sound. She lifted her hand again and brought it down hard a second time. _Plop. _Nothing. She sat up in a disbelieving huff, frustrated, and leaned over to put it out of its misery once and for all. She had pounded her fist into it twice before she realized it was innocent. Her cell phone was next to it, lighting up the dark of the room with an incoming call.

She could barely focus her eyes on the name on screen.

"Sheva." She greeted, flopping back onto the mattress. She felt her eyes fluttering closed already.

"Morning, Alomar," a gravelly voice returned, seemingly battling sleep on the other side of the phone as well.

"Chris?" She quizzed. What was he doing calling her at quarter to seven in the morning? Normally, she'd be more disciplined. Seven in the morning would never catch her in bed. But this was the morning after she'd guzzled down too many beers for her inexperienced body. She remembered how easily she feigned sobriety to get Chris off her back and let her drive home like a big girl. She remembered his cradling arms steadying her as she rose up from the booth. A tired smile formed across her lips.

"Yeah." He sounded amazing before seven a.m.

"Is this professional Chris, or personal Chris?"

His tired chuckle had her knees drawing up to her chest as she sat back against the wall at the head of her bed. It was personal Chris.

"I wanted to take you out for breakfast to make up for getting you drunk last night."

It was her turn to laugh. "You didn't get me drunk." Breakfast sounded good, though. "I'll take you up on that offer as soon as I shower. When I get up in another hour."

"No, get up now. I'll be there in thirty minutes. We'll grab something to eat after the jog."

"Jog?" she echoed. "I didn't agree to go jogging with you."

He yawned, a roaring bear of a yawn before replying through a stretch, "Professional Chris says you're going jogging with him. See you in thirty minutes.

* * *

The sun had all but peaked halfway through their jog, drenching Sheva in sweat before their second lap around the park was up. Chris, glistening like a marble bust, didn't seem to care that Sheva was, at least in her eyes, a "disheveled mess," but she had pleaded for him to at least change her clothes before breakfast.

Sheva fell into her dorm room a step ahead of Chris, making a dive for the mini fridge at the foot of the bed for a cool bottle of water. She didn't know why she assumed that last night's drinks and this morning's lactic acid wouldn't catch up to her but it did, and she lagged behind Chris the entire five miles, tempted to veer off course and collapse into the shrubs along the jogging path. Chris took a cautious peek before stepping in as he knocked, pushing the door shut behind him. He had forgotten how small the dormitories were. There wasn't much room for two people to move about without brushing past each other. It was a step above the military barracks he had lived in during his Air Force career for the sole reason that it was single occupancy. Still, during his first week of training at the BSAA, he lasted exactly one week before finding the apartment he was living in now. He couldn't stand to be confined. He went for the mini fridge at the end of the bed in three steps and eased atop it, trying to get out of the way. He pulled his white t-shirt off his chest from the collar to let in a puff of air.

"Ah, God," she moaned, smashing her eyes shut. "Why did I agree to go jogging with you?"

Chris offered her a smirk, capping his own bottle of water after downing half of it in a single swallow. "Come on. I used to be shitfaced after weekend leave and come back the morning of PFT and jog five miles in the afternoon sun."

"Ugh." The thought alone made her stomach tighten. She trailed the bottle of water from her forehead down her neck and pressed the cool plastic against her shoulder, cradling it with her tilted head.

"Stiff?" He asked dragging his eyes down her body. There was no way her lithe little frame couldn't keep up in a five mile jog.

"Yeah. Got hurt during a training exercise a few months ago," she explained with some reluctance, rolling her shoulders to get the lag out.

Chris wrinkled his brows. "Be more careful," he warned, realising he was parenting again only after he'd said it. He was in no position to talk. If she could see the ugly purple bruise he had spreading across his back and shoulder, she'd be hard pressed to believe he was anything other than a hypocrite, considering he'd taken a three story plunge to earn that badge of valor.

"What happened?"

"You know, it really depends on who's asking?" She teased, kicking a carelessly discarded scrap of clothing under the bed.

"Personal Chris," he humored, leaning down to settle his half empty bottle of water onto the tile floor. He swung his legs onto the other side of the fridge and faced her, offering his full attention.

She shrugged, trying to dismiss the severity of the story she was about to tell. It didn't relieve any of her mounting tension. If he had shared Lanshiang, she could share New Zealand. She started with a sigh.

"We had to descend from a helicopter onto a cargo ship below. But a heavy rain had made the whole exercise so much harder than it needed to be…Anyway, the copter ended up spinning out over the water with me on the line with two others. The ropes snapped and I watched one of my Delta guys fall eighty feet into the water, dead on impact. I tried to go for the other before the line broke but…he was too heavy to hold onto. I strained my shoulder muscle trying to hold into him but…" She snapped her fingers, forcing Chris to blink as if on command. "Both of us fell, but he fell first. I held onto a dead body until rescue dragged us into the boat forty minutes later."

_Damn it._ Chris remembered darting his eyes over the memorial listing that came across his desk from that tragedy. He didn't recognize any of the deceased in a glance and wasn't interested in reading the full report either. With a callous disregard he had adopted as his new norm, he lost it in the clutter on his desk. If he had bothered to read it then maybe he would have known that Sheva was involved. Maybe he would have had the decency to call.

"I was a wreck," she admitted, absently rubbing at her shoulder. She let the water bottle in her hand roll onto the bed just beside her, her eyes afar off, replaying the memory.

"Did you get psychologically debriefed?" That came out sounding rather rehearsed, despite Chris being very familiar with the feeling shortly after the incident in Edonia. Withdrawing only contributed to his decline, but he had always wished someone would have stopped him before he tumbled into that chasm. Sheva was too young to be tainted by her trauma.

When he looked up at her she was tense. He reached over an encouraging hand and squeezed her shoulder. She winched under the pang of pain from pervious injures but quickly dissolved under his touch. She nodded.

"You know you can call me to talk about these things." He moved his kneading fingers to the base of her neck when he saw her relax and eased his hand up and down the nape of her neck. If he was being out of line she had but to show the slightest discomfort and he would stop but she only sighed and lolled her head forward to encourage him.

"It wouldn't be right involving you in my life after so long. I wouldn't know what to say. At four o' clock in the morning when sleep resists me, suddenly I'm clear. Suddenly I'm poetic."

Chris withdrew his hand and folded his arms across his chest. "So call me at four," he offered with a shrug.

She smirked despite her disappointment to the abrupt end of her therapeutic massage. She could still feel his touch radiating through her neck and shoulders. She hoped the throbbing memory in her muscles would last for a while.

"Or Josh," he added with a flicker of curiosity, lapping his feet.

"Josh," she scoffed dismissingly, absently passing a hand through her hair. If Josh was emotionally affected by anything, she would never know it. He internalized everything and seldom offered a glimpse at his splintering psyche. She wished she had the talent to do that. Maybe it wasn't healthy.

Her own tears were rolling softly from her eyes unbeknownst to her. Embarrassed, she turned away from Chris and mopped them up with the backs of her hand. It didn't go beyond his notice.

"Hey," he started, taking her gently by the arm. "You can cry, Sheva. It's no big deal."

Still she couldn't face him. His encouragement seemed to break the dams of her eyes. Tears were spilling out silently and rapidly much to her chagrin.

"The last thing I want is for you or anyone else to think I can't handle this career," she admitted. Chris chuckled softly, coaxing her closer. She sounded like Jill. He guided her in front of him and brushed her hair off her shoulders.

"Be easy," he soothed, picking up where he left off with the massage. It amused him somewhat to feel her melting under his touch. She just needed to relax.

Sheva sniffed up what was left of her tears and glanced over her shoulder at him with a small appreciative smile. "Thanks, partner."

Chris nodded, increasing the intensity of his touch. His fingers were firm and intrusive, commanding and knowing. Simultaneously he moved her with jolts of pain and swayed her with waves of pleasure. Bittersweet sensations had her leaning back against him. She wanted more.

He glided his hands down her frame and settled his hands on her petite hips, daring to linger a moment if for nothing else but to test her level of comfort. He moved his hands together and drove his thumbs into the small of her lower back, forcing her to arc as he moved smoothly up her spine. He felt her edging closer to him, teasing his legs apart to invite herself into his space. What was she doing? She let out a little breath of air that Chris found himself sucking in. All of her tension had just transferred into him and shot south, raising his grey basketball shorts to a peak.

She felt _incredible_ in his hands, soft, warm, welcoming, encouraging him with the response of her body, writhing in pleasure beneath him. He couldn't stop his hands from roaming now. He was beside himself. A moan escaped her. Chris swallowed heavily as his fingertips dared to peep beneath the hem of her sports bra. It was slightly thrilling to touch a part of her body he could not see. When she did not protest he pulled his hands back and moved forward again, daring to add more pressure against her, slipping a little further under the elastic resistance of her purple sports bra as he slowly edged up her body.

_Fuck._ He wished he hadn't ever started this massage. He wished she didn't feel so pliable, so flexible and supple beneath his touch. He hoped she wouldn't spin around and meet him there at full attention and at the same time he wished she would. His next breath was heavy as he rolled palms up her back, deliberately testing the support of her body as his hands searched eagerly for that elastic barrier, closing his eyes as he dove beneath it, easing it up, separating his hands and rounding her ribcage to feel for the mounds of tender flesh he knew lay just ahead of her as he prayed—please, _please_ let her discourage me—

His phone nearly vibrated off the fridge just behind him. His hands disappeared from off her body as he snatched up the phone and answered in a breathless tone,

"Redfield."

He could feel his pupils swollen with desire. He couldn't take his eyes off the woman between his knees. He could see every freckle, every fine hair smoothed against her shimmering skin, sleek with the glow of sweat. He moved her forward, deliberate with his stern guidance and slipped off the fridge, darting for the door. He slapped a hand over the receiver to apologise for his impromptu departure. He didn't even know if he had to leave. He didn't hear a word the caller had said to him.

"Sheva, I gotta go."

He was little more than a voice by the time she'd turned to the door to watch it close after him.


End file.
